


All The Little Things

by TheRicardianEmpress01



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: F/M, M/M, Memories, alcohol mention, aneurin barnard - Freeform, ansel elgort - Freeform, being a ghost to someone else's ghost/memory, drug mention, falling in love with boris...because well, mutual love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 19:43:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19116430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRicardianEmpress01/pseuds/TheRicardianEmpress01
Summary: Little things hurt.  Not the big things.At least with those, you know how to deal with them.Boris is one of the little things.





	All The Little Things

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2nja4z)

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=b7fj84)

Somewhere in London.

It’s all the little things that hurt the most.

Not the big things. Those you can fathom out. Those you can handle and deal with.

No, it’s those little things that seem to creep out of nowhere and hold you hostage.

Like a papercut. Or, stubbing a toe on an offending piece of furniture. Any of the multitude of things that can stop you in your tracks.

So it was with Boris.

Or rather, my memory of him.

I only remember the little things, not the big ones. Ones that I should remember, but somehow have slipped my mind over the course of time.

Not so with Theo.

He remembers the big, as well as the little. But, that’s Theo. He simply had more time with Boris then I did. He had what amounted to years.

Me?

Weeks, maybe months, definitely not years.

What do I remember?

Unlike Theo, who had numerous things about Boris to remember, I have only one left to me.

Antwerp.

Boris’ apartment.

A chilly, dark, rain soaked night.

More vodka than I’d ever had in my life.

Angry words.

Accusations.

And an unfathomable hatred for someone I had never met, yet could feel all around us in that apartment. 

Like an annoying, irritating ghost that will not leave, no matter how much you wish them to.

And, listening to Boris count out loud in Russian right before he finally kissed me. 

More vodka.

Some cocaine.

Some pot.

More accusations and angry words.

Hours of the most intense sex I’d ever had, only for it to devolve into arguing, more accusations, that ever present ghost in the room, and more vodka.

And, that incessant counting.

What was he doing?

Always in Russian, sometimes in Polish.

“Is good to count. You should try it, Sabine.”

Sabine?

My name is Sasha.

Once, during a particularly intense round of vodka laced sex, he had even called me Theo.

Theo?

That ever present ghost again.

“Boris, my name is Sasha.”

He had glared at me silently for a long time.

He finally shook his head and retreated back into those memories of his friend.

No, not just friend…  
Theo had always been something more. Something those of us on the outside looking in, would never be able to understand. 

I knew this.

I understood it.

And yet, I jumped into Boris’ life, as if I were merely jumping into a pool.

No lifeguard.

No shallow end.

And worse still, having no idea how to actually swim.

Stupid, stupid.

And still, there was Theo.

He haunted me just as he haunted Boris. Except, I didn’t want him to, Boris did. He was everything to Boris. He couldn’t let go. And, if I remember correctly, Theo couldn’t let go of Boris, either.

More counting. Always,always that irrational, incessant counting!

What was he doing?

Better yet, why was he doing it?

Always doing it before he kissed me.

Always doing it before we fucked.

And, sometimes even afterwards.

The worst part?

That counting always ended with Theo.

Always.

Theo, Theo, Theo!

That fucking ghost that I hated with a deep, raw passion.

That fucking ghost that Boris loved with an equally deep, raw passion.

That fucking ghost that drove me from that apartment in Antwerp all those months ago.

Unlike Theo, who had simply got into a cab and left Boris standing there. I, on the other hand, after another vodka induced night of arguments, sex, accusations, incessant counting and stories of his precious Theo, had slipped out into the rain and darkness like a thief, leaving Boris asleep and dreaming in his bed.

No doubt, he would have been dreaming of Theo.

That fucking ghost I couldn’t compete against.

About their many adventures together.

The drugs.

The alcohol.

The long nights of laying together in Theo’s bed, all tangled up in each other.

Boris did not think I understood.

I did.

I understood how, during our nights of passion, he would cry out Theo’s name in his moment of release. How he would look at me sheepishly, afraid that I would think less of him.

I didn’t think less.

I understood.

I just hated Theo.

“Sasha? Is bad that this happens, yes?” He wouldn’t look at me. Not at first. 

He was hurting.

I knew that.

I understood.  
“No Boris, it’s not bad.”

He nodded.

“You understand, yes?”

Yes.

It was time for me to go.

As much as I loved Boris, and yes, I did, still do, it was time for me to leave.

I left him there.

Not like Theo had.

Boris had been there, awake, pleading and begging Theo to stay...just one more day...just one…

I left him asleep in his bed. Dreaming about another who had simply up and walked away from him.

Just like I had.

I am also a ghost.

Not like Theo.

No, I am a ghost that will not be remembered. Theo will always have a place in Boris’ memory, in his heart.

Always.

Which is why it was so hard to get that text from Boris a few nights ago.

Saying something I had never expected.

“Sasha?”

“I didn’t answer.

“If this is you...I loved you, too. Not like Theo, but I also loved you.”

Again, I did not answer.  
“Is bad to feel love for two,yes?”

It would be a day or so later when I finally text him back.

“No Boris, it isn’t bad.”

Minutes had ticked by, me thinking he’d never reply.

“Sasha, I…”

I stared at my phone for a long time before tapping in my reply.

“I love you, Boris.”

“I love you too, Sasha.”

That’s a memory I will always have.

Memories. Just like all the little things.

They’re what hurt the most.


End file.
